


you are my medicine

by biggorillalovin69 (looker)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: And Soldier: 76 Is There, Communication Failure, Friends to Lovers, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Shoujo Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:47:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9312200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looker/pseuds/biggorillalovin69
Summary: On Gibraltar, Hanzo finds forgiveness, love, and acceptance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the red-headed uke squad](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the+red-headed+uke+squad).



**You have entered a secure channel: OVW_GEN**

**Server:** GIBRALTAR

**Private communication from:** WINSTON

 

_> >Hi there!_

_> >Thank you for your interest in the work of Overwatch._

_> >I’m looking forward to working with you, Hanzo. May I call you Hanzo?_

Yes.

 

_> >Good!_

_> >I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but Genji and I are good friends._

_> >I look forward to working with you!_

Yes.

 

_> >Excellent!_

_> >See you on Monday, Hanzo!_

_> >さようなら!_

_> >LOL! ☺_

Goodbye.

 

-

 

Whatever Overwatch was, it was not what Hanzo imagined it would be.

 

Watchpoint: Gibraltar had been out of use for years, and it looked like it. The base had supposedly been mothballed, but whoever had been charged with maintaining it had done a poor job, IHO (in Hanzo’s opinion). Clean white walls had been weathered a grimy grey, greenery had been allowed to overgrow, graffiti sprayed on walls during it’s years of abandonment.

 

Indeed, when they pulled up in a non-discrete black car with tinted windows, his first sight was a young woman scrubbing some crudely drawn… _genitalia_ … off a nearby wall. Obnoxiously bright leggings had been the first thing to catch his eye. The second was a flash of blue on her chest, a glowing contraption strapped over her thin frame.

 

A weapon of some kind, perhaps? Armour? A shield? Suddenly Hanzo felt under-dressed and under-equipped, and he longed for the weight of his bow in his hands.

 

“Hey!”

 

The girl’s voice rang out as Hanzo slammed the door of the car, and when he turned, she was by his side. He jumped, in spite of himself. She had been at least twenty feet away mere moments ago- and now she was here, grinning up at him, smile wide and toothy.

 

“You must be the new agent, eh?” She said, giving a mock salute with two fingers. “I’m Lena, call sign Tracer, but you can call me Tracer!”

 

“Hanzo Shimada,” Hanzo replied, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “Call me-“

 

A moment of hesitation.

 

“Hanzo,” he said, finally. People here called his brother Genji.

 

“Hanzo, gotcha,” she nodded. “Winston is _dying_ to meet you. Where’s your stuff?”

 

Hanzo nodded, jerkily (both in terms of movement and also he is a jerk) towards the trunk. When Tracer took a step towards it, he grabbed her arm instinctively.

 

“Sorry,” he said, letting go of her immediately. She didn’t seem offended- just confused. “I will get it.”

 

The driver who had brought him here had disappeared immediately. A grunt, Hanzo suspected, likely reporting to a senior officer. The trunk of the car was unlocked, though, and as he retrieved his bow, housed in a long, metal case, Tracer grinned.

 

“Can’t wait to see your arsenal,” she grinned. “Can’t wait to see what you’re packing,” she said again. Was she trying to seduce him? Was this what Overwatch was like?

 

She made her hands into finger guns, pointing at him. “Winston cooked me up these amazing pulse pistols, pew pew pew!”

 

_This_ was what his brother had forsaken his humanity for?

 

If Tracer noticed Hanzo’s frosty glare, she didn’t show it. Instead she grinned again, pointed to a building in the distance, and said, “C’mon, I’ll show you to the lab!”

 

-

 

Tracer was exhausting, both her personality and physical stamina and whatever… _augmentation_ leant her the ability to blink in and out of existence. Not one to be outdone, Hanzo had scampered up buildings after her. As they reached the lab, he struggled to not to gasp for air, but Tracer seemed unfazed.

 

“Alright then!” She said, cheerfully, opening the door to the lab.

 

The first thing that struck Hanzo was how _messy_ the place was – cardboard boxes filled with files everywhere, bins full of banana peels. The next thing he noticed was the rather conspicuous tire swing and elaborate system of ropes and pulleys scattered around the lab.

 

“Does Winston have a pet?”

 

“Eh?” Tracer span a chalkboard as she walked past it. “He might have had a few fish on the moon. That’s his real home, you know. Not much room for animals here though, right? That’s a shame. I always wanted a dog. You know, a really tiny yappy cute one.”

 

“They do say pets resemble their owners,” Hanzo said dryly.

 

“You think I’m cute?” She seemed genuinely flattered. “Cheers!”

 

“Enough of this foolishness,” Hanzo said, sharply. “I came here to meet with-”

 

“Winston reporting!”

 

The booming voice that echoed above them was one Hanzo had heard a few times, communicating over comms or – for goodness sake, did they live in the dark ages? – _telephone_. Hanzo had always imagined Winston as a bookish man. A little shorter than himself,  middle aged, thinning hair, weight gathering in his midsection despite his best efforts.

 

He had not pictured a six-hundred-pound gorilla, but when he looked in the direction the voice came from (up, strangely), that was exactly what he saw.

 

The gorilla let go of the rope he’d swung in on with a thump, beakers shuddering on the table. Tracer caught one before it shuddered off the edge, and grinned at the gorilla.

 

“Careful, love,” she said, brightly. “That could’ve been the fourth one this week!”

 

“This laboratory was not built for a man of my physique,” the gorilla said, gruffly. “The lunar base has far superior facilities. For science.”

 

“And would cost a hell of a lot more to dispatch agents from.”

 

Hanzo was beginning to wonder what was happening to him. Was he dreaming? Had it been the cheap meal he’d been given on his fourteen hour flight? What’s the deal with airline food, am I right?

 

The ape turned to him.

 

“Hanzo,” it said, knuckle-walking towards him. Hanzo took a step back without thinking, and it paused, taking a moment to push it’s comically small glasses up its nose. They slid back down immediately – a gorillas face is not build for glasses. Gorillas don’t _wear_ glasses. “We spoke over the comm channel?”

 

“Winston,” Hanzo said, blankly. When the gorilla nodded, he said, incredulously, “ _Winston_.”

 

“He usually has that effect on people,” Tracer giggled, leaning in to wrap an arm around Winston’s thick arm and hugging close to it. “It’s not every day you meet such a brilliant scientist.”

 

“Lena, you flatter me,” Winston chuckled. Hanzo had never heard such a deep… warm… sexy… laugh.

 

“Pardon my rudeness,” he said, sharply. Winston looked up, and Hanzo felt himself tense. Those eyes weren’t the eyes of a wild animal – they were intelligent and thoughtful, however inhuman their yellow glint (and, like, everything around them) was. “I am Hanzo Shimada. It is an honour to finally meet you.”

 

“The pleasure is all mine.” That laugh again. Winston held out a hand. “Thank you for coming.”

 

Cautiously, Hanzo extended a hand. Winston’s hand was at least twice the size of his and surprisingly soft, though his grip was as strong as expected. The handshake lasted a moment longer than Hanzo expected, although maybe it was his imagination- in any case, Winston finally let his hand drop, back to the floor, and gestured with his other one when Tracer finally let go of his arm.

 

“Come with me,” he said. “We have so much to show you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hanzo had slept in some pretty shitty places in the past ten years. You can’t afford to be too picky, after all, not when you’ve murdered your brother and are being hunted by your family’s most skilled assassins. A feeling we can all relate too, I’m sure. Even so, the mediocrity of Overwatch’s sleeping quarters was humbling.

“I’m sure you’ll make it your own in no time,” Winston said optimistically, as Hanzo sidestepped through the bunk’s door with his case. The room looked like it had been recently clean, but dust still clung to corners where whoever had tried to tidy it had missed it, and there was a pervasive smell of damp.

Hanzo’s nose crinkled. He set his case down next to the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room besides a beat up locker.

“It’s not much,” Winston said, “But I hope you’ll be able to call it home.”

“I have not had a home in ten years,” Hanzo said, “I do not intend to make one in this sorry excuse for accommodation.”

“…Right!” Winston replied. “Let’s go get dinner.”

-

The mess hall was perhaps even less welcoming than Hanzo’s new sleeping quarters, but at least it had the clatter of plates and about a dozen voices to distract from the sorry state it was in.

“We all eat together,” Winston explained, placing large hands on Hanzo’s shoulders and sitting him down at the head of the table. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, and fixed his gaze square ahead, impassively, past a halo of blonde hair. “We take turns to cook, too. It doesn’t have to taste good, as long as it’s nutritious!”

“Tonight’s Swedish night!” Came Tracer’s voice, as she landed on the empty seat next to him. Winston took the seat to his left. “You’re lucky you arrived today!”

The clattering from the kitchen grew louder.

“Yes, Swedish night is always… interesting,” Winston agreed, diplomatically.

After what sounded like a hammer being struck against a saucepan several times, the kitchen fell quiet. Then the door swung forward, kicked open by a short man, face obscured by the giant pot he was carrying. Also, he was wearing this apron:

 

It was too long and he was in constant danger of tripping on it.

Winston spoke up as the pot was slammed down on the table, shaking it.

“Now that everyone’s here,” he said, “I’d like to welcome the newest member of Overwatch: Hanzo!”

Tepid applause followed Winston’s announcement. Glancing around the table, Hanzo said, “My brother is not here.”

“Genji is on an away mission to Nepal,” Winston said. “We expect him back next week.”

Hanzo couldn’t help but be disappointed. It would be nice to see a familiar face, even if that face was, like, in five different pieces thanks to him.

“Willkommen, Hanzo,” the woman Hanzo had been staring past said, smiling warmly. “It’s a pleasure to have you here. I am Angela.”

The woman who turned Genji into that _thing_. Hanzo’s lip curled, and Mercy must have mistook it for an attempt at a smile, because her own grew wider.

Awkward introductions followed. As they segued into idle small talk, which Hanzo only listened to, the chef ladelled out their meal. Looking down, Hanzo fought the urge to be sick. If anything, vomit would make the meal _more_ appetising.

“You cannot expect me to eat this,” he said, looking up.

“Whaf do you meme, luyv,” Tracer said, through mouthfuls of the green, soupy, pungent broth. “It’s delicious!”

“Now, we can’t account for all tastes at once here,” Winston said, “But we can at least guarantee that the food is… edible.”

Hanzo reached for his cutlery, deliberated on whether to choose a fork or a spoon to eat this… _sludge_ with, then decided on a spoon. He could still feel everyone’s eyes on him, but this time there was an air of expectation rather than curiousity. He scooped up a mouthful of soup (although calling it soup is an insult to soup, which is pure and good) and brought it to his lips.

And balked.

He spat the food into the bowl in front of him and let his spoon clatter down along with it. A collective gasp arose from around the table… sans Tracer who was still voraciously shovelling it down her throat.

“Öh, I’m sorry,” Torbj _ö_ rn said, “but I didn’t invite criticism of my cooking from a **Brother Murderer**.”

“Torbjörn!” Mercy’s voice was sharp. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that!”

“He threw Genji into a wood chipper, doc,” the cowboy beside her said. His disgusting feet were propped up on the table. His spurs were tearing the table cloth. “Not sure there’s much else he could’ve meant by that.”

“That’s not- Mein Gott, McCree, you are an idiot.” Mercy clipped him around the ear, and looked to Torbjörn, “Torbjörn, you must apologize. We must not dwell on the past if we want Overwatch to be ein Erfolg.”

“Apologize? He insulted my cooking!” The Swede wailed, gesturing towards Hanzo. “I worked hard on that!”

“I am sated,” Hanzo said, standing and walking away from the table briskly. If anyone tried to follow, he skilfully evaded them with his masterful ninja skills. Somehow, he found his way to a rooftop, pap pap paping up the wall. The sun was setting now, casting an orange glow over the base. For the first time that day, Hanzo felt at peace. He sighed, kneeling and closing his eyes and letting himself _breathe_.

Meditation had perhaps been the only thing that had kept him sane during his decade on the run. If you too want to find inner peace, go to <https://www.headspace.com/buy> and enter the promo code “WINZO” (terms and conditions apply). This fanfic was made possible by generous sponsors like Headspace. For more information on how to advertise with us, contact [biggorillalovin69@gmail.com](mailto:biggorillalovin69@gmail.com). Serious enquiries only.

A grunt came from nearby, and Hanzo’s eyes snapped open, body tensing. When Winston landed beside him, shaking the tin roof he sat on, Hanzo relaxed only slightly.

“I suppose you are here to tell me I must pack my bags and go home,” Hanzo said, uncertainly.

“What? Hanzo…”

Winston sat down beside him, taking his glasses off to wipe them clean on his shirt. Why did a gorilla need a shirt? Though Hanzo imagined this conversation would be much harder to have if Winston was…………. naked.

“Genji told me you were an… independent thinker,” Winston said, placing his glasses back on and looking out across the ocean. “I didn’t expect your introduction to Overwatch to go smoothly. But nobody’s goes smoothly. It’s a big change.”

“I am not meant for this life,” Hanzo muttered. “I am not meant to be around people. I am better off alone.”

“Everybody needs friends, Hanzo.”

“And I am going to make friends, being known as the brother murderer?”

Winston paused. Hanzo supposed he didn’t really have an answer to that.

“Everyone is very fond of Genji here,” he said, gently. “But Genji forgave you. Others will, in time, once they get to know you.”

Hanzo couldn’t imagine anyone’s opinion of him improving after getting to know him.

“You should come and train with us tomorrow,” Winston said. “We serve breakfast at oh eight hundred hours, sharp, then we head to the training range. I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do with that bow.”

“Very well,” Hanzo said. He was looking forward to seeing what Winston did with those enormous, muscle-bound arms, too, but that thought went unvoiced. Probably for the best, after all, and he didn’t know the English word for muscle-bound, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> headspace did not actually sponsor this fanfic but YOU can: send business enquiries to biggorillalovin69@gmail.com


	3. Chapter 3

Hanzo had slept on rocks that were more comfortable than the bed provided to him. He woke with a stiff neck and sore shoulders, and as his alarm beeped, he glared at the red LED screen. 7AM.

He hit snooze and rolled over.

“Agent Shimada,” a tinny voice said through an intercom he hadn’t even been aware was installed in his room. “Please wake up.”

“Go to hell,” Hanzo muttered in his own language, pulling the covers over his head.

“Agent Shimada,” the robotic voice repeated, this time in Japanese. “I am equipped with over five thousand language options. Please wake up.”

The alarm rang again. Hanzo hit snooze again.

“Snooze option disabled,” the A.I. sounded, if possible, slightly irritated. “Agent Shimada, you are expected at breakfast in one hour.”

Hanzo lay still, not wanting to be confronted with another terrible meal. When he didn’t move, a siren started blaring. Only when Hanzo dragged himself upright did it stop, and Athena said, a little smugly, “Thank you. Good morning.”

Hanzo took his time getting ready, postponing going to the mess hall as long as possible. Tied his hair back, shaved, clipped his prosthetics into place (because I don’t care what Blizzard says about those being his real legs, look at them):

Stupid ass noodle legs.

-

“Mornin’, Hanzo!” Tracer said cheerfully when she saw him, placing plates on the breakfast table. “Gimme a hand with this, will you?”

Reluctantly, Hanzo helped set cutlery out on the table, and McCree came in with a pitcher of orange juice. As it turned out, Reinhardt – enormous, German, very loud – was cooking breakfast. Hanzo expected a repeat of last night’s dinner, but instead their spread was freshly baked bread rolls with a variety of spreads, meats and cheeses. When Hanzo said the breakfast was adequate, Reinhardt beamed at him and clapped him on the back with enough strength to nearly knock him over.

After that came training. Hanzo hadn’t been sure what to expect – he’d thought he’d be left to practice his aim, but Overwatch didn’t even have an archery range. How barbaric.

“The shooting range will have to do,” Mercy said, smiling to him.

He supposed he could stomach using such an inappropriate practice area, but it was too small and he quickly got bored as he shot arrows into a twitching robot at the end of the range. He’d wanted to be left alone, to focus, but as always, Overwatch had different plans.

“Mighty fine shootin’,” McCree said, sidling up to him. As Hanzo lowered his bow to wipe his brow, the cowboy plucked at the shirt he wore. “Why’d you ruin a perfectly good shirt?”

Hanzo glared at him. The sweatshirt he wore had had the left arm hacked off for good reason, but he couldn’t expect a simpleton like this to understand the intricacies of archery.

“It is to prevent it from catching when I shoot,” Hanzo replied, shortly. “Why do you wear that idiotic hat?”

“It’s to prevent the sun from gettin’ in my eyes when I shoot,” McCree replied, mirroring Hanzo’s terse tone in a light-hearted way. He tipped his hat to him. McCree had come in his full cowboy regalia. Hanzo wondered if he ever changed his clothes. Certainly didn’t smell like it.

Hanzo shot, and McCree watched. This seemed to go on for an irritatingly long length of time, that feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, until McCree said, “Can you make the dragons come out?”

“No.”

“Aw, come on.”

“The ancient spirits that protect my family are not to be used for cheap party tricks.”

“Genji carved a pumpkin with his.”

Hanzo tch’d under his breath. Typical Genji.

“I have to admit,” came a voice from behind them, “I’d be curious to have a look at them too, Hanzo.”

Winston came to them, carrying an enormous gun in one hand. Hanzo glanced from it to the scientist, clearing his throat.

“I can’t,” he began, awkwardly. “They are not-”

“Of course. You should only summon them in deadly situations,” Winston said, good-naturedly. “Though I hope we never find ourselves in one, I would like to see them someday. They are fascinating.”

Hanzo wasn’t sure if the dragons would sate Winston’s curiosity, but he had to admit they were an impressive sight. Not to toot his own horn.

“Well,” Winston said, laying a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder as he passed, “I’d better get to work. Good to see you, Hanzo.”

He left, disappointingly leaving Hanzo and McCree to shoot together. Despite Hanzo’s stony silence, McCree peppered the couple of hours they had together with inane banter. The morning passed excruciatingly slowly – when Athena came on comms to tell them they should stop, Hanzo nearly tripped over the step that led out of the practice range trying to get away.

-

The locker room was filled with chatter as Hanzo sighed, and he found the furthest corner to change in. McCree followed him.

“Good work out there today,” the cowboy said as he unwound his sarape from his shoulders.

Hanzo ignored him as he pulled off his sweater. His body was covered in scars, none of which he cared to explain. He only wanted to shower and change as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, things could not be so straightforward.

Winston joined them, dropping a bag on the bench. The room already stank, as boy’s locker rooms always did, but Winston brought with him a unique, musky scent. Not unpleasant, but certainly noticeable. Hanzo glanced to his side as the scientist pulled off the tee he wore, revealing his broad chest.

“Well, it’s getting hot in here,” McCree said. Hanzo wondered if the other had noticed his blush, and turned his face away from him. “Real steamy.”

“Must be the showers,” Winston said, helpfully. “We’ll have Athena check the water temp soon. Hopefully she can fix that. There’s nothing better than a cold shower after a vigorous workout. Right, Hanzo?”

“Agreed,” Hanzo choked out.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw McCree rolling a towel into a tight rat tail.

“Agent McCree,” Athena said, sternly. “Please do not engage in horseplay in the locker room.”

“It watches us shower?” Hanzo balked.

“Athena maintains constant surveillance of all agents to ensure safety and security,” Winston replied, “I assure you, there’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.”

-

Hanzo’s hand slipped past the waistband of his underwear later that night, but despite Winston’s reassurance, he quickly withdrew his hand from under the covers. The blinking red light from the camera in the corner of his room stared back at him.

“I hate you,” he muttered.

“Good night, Agent Shimada.”


End file.
